inside the coracle

UNBENDING PINE

You hear the rustle of a spring

in the moss forest;

in the immaculate nest

inside the coracle.  Outside, nothing.

Milton tutored Williams in Italian;

Roger taught John a mite

of basic Narragansett

collecting firewood around London

to banish winter at the poorhouse.

Here in January ice

beside the river, ICE

is on my mind.  The Emperor’s

in league with Herod, every infant

trembles for her life;

Virgo is mummified by strife;

grieving, she murmurs her dissent

from frozen exile on external heights.

Meanwhile sweet Providence

searches for evidence

& Lincoln coins... irrevocable rights.

Your imago, moss copper-serpentine

(between Son of Man

& some unbending pine

of immeasurable heaven) is Washington

redeemed, again; your Virgo (hovering

ethereal triangle

o’er Spotsylvania) might mingle

with Virginia clay... Jonah, recovering.

1.18.19

political sonnet

LAST WORDS

                                  i.m. Alexander Litvinenko

Some Russian in a London hospital

is losing all his hair, can barely speak.

The doctors are confused.  His liquids leak.

It seems he may not make it, after all.

He slumps his ugly body to the wall.

Polonium-210 is quite unique –

this instrument of power at its peak

reduces fractious elements to nil.

And yet a feeble whisper emanates

from dying lips (all victims are pathetic).

You’re a bona fide barbarian,

he croaks (to Mr. Vladimir Putin).

You’ve proved you don’t deserve the trust

of my beloved Russia.  Last words stick.

something very like an H

SALIENT THREAD

In the limpid evening distance, the twin

piers of the bridge are shining

as if a smile took wing.

& something very like an H is drawn

in orange ‘gainst the azure gold –

a catenary grave

for slight Ophelia (wave

goodbye now, wrinkled Henry Gourd).

Hamlet & Laertes squabble

aching in the trench;

leaves fall... the wench

is dead.  The leaves make hibble-hobble

& the scene folds into quiet,

sea, mourning.  The ship

groans back to London.  Slip

the knot now, Everyman... knit

your soul into that oaken keel.

The ropes will fray, the mast

will break, redwood at last

keel over too... yet may this steel

needle still aim toward home, somehow.

A gibbous moon ripens

onto Jaybird’s pencil-

thin & salient thread (above, below

twine almond bears)   the crossroad sings

with joyeux Yeshua

the motes flame   Manitou

Black Elk   yahoo   the tree-bell rings

10.11.16

London - my young Jesus freak days. Henry Hankovitch, con guitar. Thought the Stones might be useful for evangelization. (Now there's a new idea! Are you tuned in, Canterbury?) That was when I proclaimed the Fall of Babylon, in all seriousness, one midsummer day, to the hippies & potheads at Glastonbury Tor. Return of "the King".

These days I'm playing with Jim & Colette in a jug band, tentatively the K.C. Moaners. Old-timey, ragtime, blues, & some Canadienne fiddle-stomps. We're live at the No. Smithfield Public Library (I think) on March 22, if anybody's in town.